


every man gets as much of it as he can

by Siriusstuff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (not all that kinky), Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Derek, Come Eating, Derek in lace panties, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I Tried, I hope I've tagged everything important, Lace Panties, M/M, Panty Kink, Riding, Rimming, Scisaac (implied), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusstuff/pseuds/Siriusstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson discovers that Derek wears lace panties. He has questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every man gets as much of it as he can

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by some scorchy hot Derek in lace panties kink porn. I don't think I actually have a lace panties kink but I definitely have a kink for Derek Hale in them. So I decided to try writing some DILP porn myself. But before I really got started, I saw photos of Colton Haynes at his earthquake movie premiere, where he wore that PINK SUIT. Then I just had to put Jackson in my story and my fic got fluffy as a result. There's an explicit scene between Derek and Stiles, with panties too, but is it as hot as the porn that inspired it? I'm pretty certain no. I shall try again another time.  
> The title comes from a quote by Dr. Samuel Johnson, who probably wore a lot of lace cuffs, not panties.

Following Derek to the storage shed in the backyard’s corner, Jackson kept up a monologue about a recent investment’s unexpected big pay-off. Derek half listened while he sought the barbecue grill utensils, the spatula and tongs he was sure he’d stored away there last fall. He opened a cast resin chest in the shed and bent over shifting through its contents.

That’s when Jackson saw, as Derek’s shirt slid up his lower back, revealing the waist of his jeans straining and pulled away from his body due to the tension: a thin elastic band of pale yellow and a strip of lace, much brighter yellow.

_Derek was wearing lace panties? Bright yellow lace panties_? Jackson stopped talking.

Derek, hardly noticing, stood up, closed the chest. “Where could I…?” He looked at Jackson, whose speechlessness still hadn’t registered, being less important than that spatula and tongs.

“I’ve got to go back in the house,” Derek announced, heading indoors. Jackson mutely followed.

Derek rummaged through a kitchen closet containing a multitude of things, finally standing on one foot atop a sturdy box to access a top shelf. He still had to stretch and again his shirt rode up, and again Jackson’s eyes were riveted on the bright yellow lace strip.

“Stiles!” Derek shouted. “Stiles!” he called. 

Stiles appeared from wherever he’d been, asking “Wha-at?” as he approached but at the sight of Derek’s ass all thoughts vaporized. He too saw the lace but, unlike Jackson, knew exactly what he saw.

Stiles looked at Jackson’s baffled expression.

Jackson looked at Stiles’s indecipherable one.

Derek stepped down, turned and saw the two men both with strange, if varying, looks on their faces.

“What’s—?” he queried, looking back and forth, clearly perplexed.

At the same time Jackson asked Derek, “Why are wearing lace panties?” Stiles asked Derek, “Why are you wearing your panties now?”

All Derek heard was “panties.”

His ears blushed red. He tugged down his shirt. “Oh,” he said. “It’s supposed to be… really warm today.” He looked at Jackson. “And… they’re—cooler? Than. Regular underwear?”

“So, Jackson,” Stiles began. “Really nice of you to drop by. Hope to see you again soon.”

“What?” Jackson asked, with another layer of confusion on top of the already existing one.

“What?” Stiles echoed.

“You invited me here to eat!”

“Oh!” Stiles chirped. “You’re hungry? Let me make you—a sandwich? You like—cheese?”

“We’re having a barbecue?—I brought steaks!” Jackson cried.

“Oh!” Stiles chirped again. “Barbecue. Yeah. Steaks. Silly me.” He turned and walked off in a random direction.

“Stiles?” Derek asked.

Turning back around, “Yes? Derek?” Stiles replied.

“Where are the…” Derek made wiggly gestures with his fingers. Stiles seemed hypnotized by their movement.

“Is it a sex thing—between you two?” Jackson asked.

“ _What_?” Derek whirled his head around to give Jackson a glare. But Jackson wasn’t spooked.

“The, uh,” he pointed with both hands at Derek’s pelvic area. Derek tugged down his shirt again.

“Can you wait on that?” he asked, more like ordered. “Stiles! Where are the spatula and tongs? For the grill.”

“Spatula and tongs…” Stiles repeated, as if pondering those words’ meaning for the first time. He pondered. “If I don’t know, does that mean the barbecue’s canceled?”

“ _No_!” Derek barked. “It does not.—Find. Them. Please.”

“Geez,” Stiles sighed, just as the doorbell rang. Then he repeated “ _Geez_!” with even more annoyance.

Scott and Isaac stood at the front door. Scott held two large crates filled with bottles and cans of drinks. Isaac carried another.

“Oh,” Stiles said, standing there. “Maybe bring them to the backyard?”

“Bro?” Scott spoke, between laughing and cussing. “Maybe take one?”

“Oh. Right. OK. Sorry.”

Isaac rolled his eyes, but Stiles didn’t see.

 

Stiles found the much sought spatula and tongs in a cabinet under the kitchen counter. He’d thoroughly scoured them last fall, after the last barbecue, and then stashed them away. 

Finding those items would be the last evidence his brain was functioning that day. 

Armed with his precious utensils, Derek proved himself once again the grill-meister.

After Scott and Isaac, Erica and Boyd arrived, then Lydia; Danny, with a new cute guy; even Cora showed up, with current girlfriend or just girl friend, no one dared ask. Laura and her husband came for a while, a couple of neighbors. The Sheriff dropped in, in uniform, and managed to sneak a cheese burger right under Stiles’s nose.

Stiles dropped his full plate in his lap, spilled his drink and knocked over two others’ drinks; he splashed sparkling water—thank god just sparkling water—on Lydia’s blouse; he walked face first into a screen door and fell backwards over a bench in the yard. Derek instructed everyone present not to let Stiles have any knives or other sharp objects, nor to let him operate heavy machinery, or even light machinery. Keep Stiles away from machinery, period.

 

There being no such thing as a private conversation at a werewolf barbecue when Jackson decided to leave he asked Derek to walk with him to his Porsche.

Derek consented despite knowing Jackson’s intention.

He wasn’t wrong.

“So,” Jackson started, wasting no time at all, “are you a closet transvestite?”

“There are lace panties for men, you know,” Derek countered. “Lace underwear. They have pouches, space for, you know…” Seeking the upper hand Derek blurted out: “You’re such a fashionazi, I’m surprised you’re not aware! There are lace bikini briefs, lace thongs—lace bongs.—That’s between a bikini brief and thong. I think.—And more. And all for men.”

“You think I’m a fashionazi?”

“I’ve seen you wear a pink suit! With a pink shirt. Pink tie.”

“ _And_ I looked goddamn _great_ in it too!”

“You looked like a flamingo.”

“Yeah—but _you’re_ the one knows about _bongs_!—And you mean _fashionista_ , not fashionazi. And I _do_ know—about all kinds of underwear. You should _see_ my underwear!—I mean, you never will, but I have all kinds.”

“But no lace.”

“Is that why you wear them? Because they’re ‘fashionable’?” He made air quotes and wrinkled his nose.

“They’re… comfortable,” Derek retorted. “Feel—interesting—against your—skin.”

“Spoken like a true closet transvestite.”

“What’s your problem wi—” Derek stopped talking when he saw Stiles coming from around the side of the house, from the backyard. Stiles looked like he was listing to one side and still not aware of his surroundings.

He only had eyes for Derek, focused, unblinking eyes, plus a dopey smile.

Jackson barely waited till he was in hearing range. “Stilinski, you make Derek wear lace panties?—It’s a sex thing between you two, isn’t it. I know it is,” he announced.

Stiles managed to look away from Derek. “I only _make_ Derek wear heels, fishnet stockings, garter belt, corset, cherry red lipstick and lots of eye make-up.—Oh, and a red feather boa.”

“Rocky Horror,” Jackson said.

“Rocky Horror wore gold lamé undies.—You mean Dr. Frank N. Furter, _Whittemore_.”

“I don’t actually wear any of—” Derek tried to interject.

“You two are really good at diversion!—Why—” Jackson also tried to interject.

Stiles interjected, right in Jackson’s face, “Fascination, _Whittemore_ , suggests deep interest, deep _personal_ interest.—Why don’t you just get yourself some lace panties and see for yourself how they feel upon your shaved ass and pubeless crotch?”

“ _Stilinski_.” They’d known each other long enough, Jackson’s facial sneer was implied. “I’m going home.--Thanks for the feed.”

“Thanks for the steaks,” came the simultaneous response. Jackson sighed and with eyes cast heavenward shook his head. It could have been for multiple reasons. He and Derek bro-hugged.

The Porsche drove away with a smooth growl.

Watching Jackson disappear, Derek had his arm round Stiles’s shoulders. Stiles had his round Derek’s waist. His fingers wandered down, seeking the feel of lace texture beneath Derek’s jeans.

“Stiles.”

“What? I’m allowed to feel my fiancé’s ass.

“In public.”

“Anywhere!—Think we can invite our remaining guests to go home?”

“Inviting people back to their own homes is a thing?”

“Or we could just chase them away.— _You_ could.”

“You haven’t been the most shining example of a host today.”

“I haven’t had any blood circulating above my belly button all day. Not since I saw your panties.”

“ _Underwear_.”

Stiles’s look said _no_.

“Manties?”

“Lace. Panties.—Now I have an urgent need. _Urgent need_ , Derek. _Urgent_.”

“I want to shower first. I smell like meat fumes.”

“ _Ooh, yeah, baby, meat fumes_ ,” Stiles whispered hoarsely, grinding against Derek, trying to get a make-out session underway.

“Stiles—neighbors, children.”

“I don’t care. I’ll be in our bedroom. Chase everyone home.”

“No shower with me?” Derek pouted.

“No. No sex unless there’s lace panties included.”

 

“Stiles,” Lydia stated in her manner indicating weighty words would follow, “I’ve known you for years. But today was without doubt _historic_.”

Erica giggled at Lydia’s tone.

“Yeah, congrats on not killing yourself and thanks for not killing any of us,” Isaac snarked.

Erica laughed louder.

Scott snickered and hugged Stiles goodbye, kissing his cheek with a “Love ya, bro,” and shaking him gently by both shoulders. Lydia presented her cheek to Stiles for a politic peck and Erica laid a big one on Stiles’s lips because that’s just the kind of woman she was.

Boyd patted Stiles’s head but let his standard silence say everything, which it always succeeded in doing.

 

Stiles sat up in their bed. He was nude. He’d found Derek’s yellow lace panties on the floor and had pulled them over his head, the elastic under his nose only slightly irritating.

He felt like his dick had been semi-hard since the panties sighting, now eight or more hours past. At the moment it was on stand-by, as Stiles stroked it listlessly, waiting for Derek’s shower to end.

Derek emerged, standing in the bedroom doorway still toweling his hair but otherwise splendorously naked.

One look at Stiles’s panty-clad head, though, and all he could do was ask, “Why?”

“Why yourself,” Stiles answered.

“I see blood circulation still isn’t reaching your brain.”

Stiles lifted his dick and let it drop back with a _thunk_. “Got more important places to be,” he said.

Derek draped his towel from the top corner of the door, raked his hair back with his fingers. Reaching Stiles, he pinched the yellow panties between thumb and forefinger, asking, “May I?” and pulled them off Stiles’s head easily.

Stiles whined and scrambled to retrieve them but Derek lifted them out of his way, flinging them into the hallway outside the bedroom.

Stiles pouted. “Where’d you get yellow ones anyway?” he asked.

Now Derek looked like _he_ would pout. “ _You_ got me them, in a whole set of the seven colors of the rainbow!”

“Ah, yes, the classic _Roy G. Biv Collection_.—So… what color you gonna put on now?” Stiles rubbed his hands together.

Derek snuffed. “Well…you like these?” He held up a chartreuse pair from the top dresser drawer.

“Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah.” Stiles waggled his head up and down, stopping with his tongue between his teeth, his eyes wide.

“Or…” No way Derek wasn’t going to draw out the proceedings. “…these.—What color would you call these? Periwinkle?”

Stiles groaned.

“Or this color.—Is it—heliotrope?”

“ _Derek_!” Stiles finally cried, trying to kick but again, his target was out of reach. Instead he just thrashed his leg.

“What?” Derek could be a ball-buster too. He’d learned from the best.

“Pick a pair. Put them on. Come to bed, make _nice-nice_ with Stiles.”

Smiling devilishly, Derek slowly drew out… red lace low bikini cut.

Stiles _loved_ red.

His “Oh, yeah,” confirmed as much.

Derek got one foot in, then the other, drew the panties with deliberate slowness up, over his calves, his knees, his thighs. Derek’s dick swelling but nowhere near full, was already too much for the skimpy panties’ front, sticking out the top of them, bulging the front outward as he tugged the back of them over his butt as much as they’d go. Then he pushed his dick down inside. It angled along the crease of his groin, right under the panties’ waist band. It hadn’t much room.

“OK?” he inquired quietly, looking up at Stiles.

The reverse strip tease had entranced Stiles, but the question brought him back. Making slow-paced grabby hands outward, he again confirmed, “Oh, yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah.—Come to your Stilesy-wilesy.”

“In spite of _that_.” Now at the bed side, Derek leaned over, lay his lips on Stiles’s. They kissed like hungry men getting a meal at last.

Parting, but with their mouths close, “Why you so mean to the man you want to marry?” Stiles lamented. “Big _dick_.”

Stiles liked that cognomen especially, because it applied metaphorically as well as literally.

“You _like_ dick,” Derek reminded him.

“I like asshole too,” Stiles countered. “Gimme, gimme.”

Derek climbed aboard, in a sixty-nine position, lavishing his oral skills on Stiles’s hard-on while Stiles tongue- and finger-fucked Derek’s freshly showered hole. He’d pushed the red lace out of the way of both. 

Stiles was indeed a tongue-fuck pro and Derek was soon quasi-delirious, yet still no less able to shift his position, crouch over Stiles’s cock, finger-hook aside the panel of lace connecting his panties’ front and back, then sit on Stiles’s dick and ride it.

Despite being balls’ deep in his boyfriend’s ass, Stiles felt left out watching Derek stroke his own hefty member—especially with Derek’s eyes closed. The lace was shoved down; Derek’s big dick stuck out over it. Stiles fingers itched to touch but he didn’t want to interfere with Derek’s rhythm or the orgasm on its way. Instead Stiles daintily tickled a few fingers up and down Derek’s forearm. Derek opened his eyes, smiled, and Stiles felt soul-connected once more.

“Come on, big guy. I know you want to cover me in your cum. You’re mine and I’m yours. Make me smell like it.”

“Stiles,” Derek panted.

“Big werewolf load, splattered all over your human.”

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles braced his legs and forced his pelvis higher. Derek rode up and down to whatever height or depth he chose but Stiles felt like he poked deeper into Derek’s squelchy overheated insides pressing upwards that way.

It was true.

“ _Stiles!_ ” 

Stiles felt the first hot _splat_ on his stomach; the second reached past his sternum, spattered on his chin and a cheek. There was a third, a fourth. Derek was curling forward till his head lay near Stiles’s shoulder. Breaths gusted out of him.

“Mmmm,” Stiles hummed, tenderly stroking Derek’s hair. Even by the bed lamp’s lowest setting Stiles could see Derek’s eyes gazing at him, eyes, blue turning green turning copper.

It seemed the werewolf’s irresistible whim, whenever he saw his seed spilled on Stiles, was to smear it all over him. But soon as Derek’s fingertips touched the little cum puddles Stiles took Derek’s hand, put his fingers in his mouth—and that’s where most of Derek’s seed went.

“Now it’s inside me,” Stiles grumbled to him.

He lifted his shoulder, a signal. Derek rolled off him and onto his back all the way. Stiles situated himself between Derek’s raised knees. He took hold of the panties and pulled them off, going up again, over Derek’s legs, off his feet.

Stiles dropped the crumpled red lace onto Derek’s chest, to keep it in view. He spread a little more lube on his unflagging cock and let the tip kiss the pucker, still ready to receive. With his eyes locked on Derek’s he pressed in, one slow but single thrust. Derek’s eyes closed, his head rolled back, while Stiles looked on in adoration.

Getting a werewolf—this werewolf in particular—to budge when he didn’t want to, whether seated or standing, was impossible; this was not news. But even on his back, with his legs in the air, Derek was solidly planted, so solidly planted Stiles’s impersonation of a horizontal pile-driver moved Derek only from within.

Werewolf prostate response was as heightened as all other werewolf senses—though Stiles’s experience stimulating said gland in werewolves was confined to the one he was stimulating at that moment.

Despite his orgasm only moments before, Derek’s thick dick was rigid again. He “mmmm’d” and “ahhh’d,” whined and groaned as Stiles fucked him.

Stiles did his best not to get distracted watching Derek take the fucking. He also tried not exhausting himself, pounding away relentlessly—since Derek never asked him to stop. Derek just held onto Stiles at his bent knees and enjoyed the bumpy ride.

As he neared the gravity well of his own orgasm Stiles hammered away even harder, faster. His gift of gab deserted him, his vocabulary only “oh’s” and “yeah’s” and “fuck’s.”

Then with a sound like he’d been punched in the gut—which he definitely had not—Stiles climaxed. He bent further over Derek, folding back Derek’s legs with him, neck torqued. What started out like a groan of harsh complaint resolved itself into a happy sigh, fading away.

Toppled over at Derek’s side, Stiles panted.

“Holy mother of fucking cow,” summed up his feelings about everything right then.

Derek giggled.

Panting continued.

Derek raised his arm at the elbow; Stiles did likewise and they linked hands. Breathing returned to normal, Stiles brought their arms down between them. There he felt the lace, picked it up, noting its dampness—with sweat or lube or cum, he didn’t care. Holding it up arms’ length above him, he stretched out the garment with both hands, contemplating.

After a silent minute, “What are you doing?” Derek asked.

“We should get lace panties for Jackson,” Stiles decreed.

“ _No_ ,” was Derek’s immediate reaction. “Why do you enjoy pissing him off?”

Stiles flung the panties away through the air. “Trust me. It’s like my gaydar. Jackson wants some lace panties. I _know_.”

“He asked if I’m a transvestite after he saw mine.”

“Pfft! _Psychological projection_. Jackson’s the one with the clothes fetish.”

“He’s a _fashionista_ ,” Derek said, sounding pleased at getting the distinction figured out.

Stiles raised his head to look at Derek with surprise. “Listen at _you_!”

“Well, he _does_ have a good sense of style.”

“ _Really now_?” Stiles eyebrows were doing a serpent dance.

“He can tie an Eldredge knot.”

“I can make you come with my tongue in your ass,” Stiles instantly retorted.

Derek smirked, but kept up his defense. “He gives me tips on how to dress better.”

“I think you look better _un_ dressed.—And _I’ve_ got the best _tip_ for yo—”

“OK, Stiles.” Derek’s hands went up. Surrender. Why argue, even in play. He never won. He rolled to the bed’s edge to reach for the wet wipes they kept bedside.

“So you agree, lace panties for Jackson, from you and me.”

“I didn’t say that.” He wiped between his butt cheeks. Some might think it gross (Jackson definitely would.) But Derek and Stiles had got to the _share the bathroom no matter what you have to do in there_ stage more than a year ago; this was nothing. After-sex clean up was usually mutual and though Stiles made some cursory wipes with a fresh towellette only a shower and thorough soaping would clean off the remnants of dried cum on Stiles’s chest now.

Meanwhile, “Derek!” Stiles wheedled, “it’ll make a nice gift. I swear!”

“It’s not for revenge?”

“ _Yes!_ Revenge! _Lace pan-tees are zee ultimate rayvange_ ,” Stiles said, in an accent meant to be foreign. “ _Lace revenge_!—No, Derek, not for revenge, I promise.”

Keeping quiet, Derek returned to his side, inviting Stiles to be Big Spoon. After twisting around and stretching to turn off the bed lamp on the bed’s other side, and pulling a sheet over them both, Stiles assumed Big Spoon position.

“So, that’s a yes?” he asked, in the dark.

“ _OK_.”

“ _Yes_!” He peppered Derek’s shoulders and back with kisses as _thank you_.

But _still_ wasn’t finished for the night.

“ _Derek_ ,” he whispered.

Only after a pause Derek answered, “What,” not whispering.

“Do you think they still give you _leis_ when you arrive in Hawaii?”

Hawaii, their honeymoon destination, a few months away.

“I don’t know, Stiles.” Another pause. “ _Why_?”

“Do you think they’d give us grass skirts too?” He was already pressed against Derek’s butt; now he increased the pressure.

Knowing better than to ask, Derek asked anyway, “Why?”

Stiles’s whisper was spiced with more than the need to be quiet: “ _Because you’d look so hot in a grass skirt_!”

“Stiles… let’s sleep.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

But visions of Derek in a grass skirt now danced through Stiles’s head, with the grass so short Derek’s bare ass would show, the bottom of his cheeks, where the fuzz was, and, _yeah_ , in the front Derek’s cock hung lower than the grass.

Stiles was hard again, humping against Derek, kissing his neck, behind his ear.

Derek started squirming. Stiles heard little abbreviated moans.

The countdown to round two had commenced.

 

_Project Lace Panties for Whittemore_ (Stiles insisted on the name without admitting it was the alternate to _Project Lace Revenge Against Whittemore_ ) started with the pair shopping sites Derek liked and for brands he wore, Good Devil, International Jock. But if they wanted Jackson to consider their gift more than a joke they had to go for the gold, the labels he loved: Calvin Klein, Emporio Armani, Hugo Boss. Having repeatedly to ask Stiles to _slow down, wait_ , Derek faced the possibility he _might_ be a fashionista after all—an underwear fashionista at least, as he pored over choices by Sloggi, N2N and Hom.

Stiles alerted Derek that looking at mostly nude guys with the focus on their hardly concealed junk and backsides was making him very _very_ horny.

What a surprise.

Derek purchased at least a dozen new things for his unmentionables stockpile. Stiles even found his Rocky Horror gold lamé booty shorts—which he planned to _rock_ next Halloween, and for sure before, _privately_.

Derek made mental notes where to return if he wanted fresh, sexy skivvies to inflame Stiles’s lust on their Hawaiian honeymoon. Not that Stiles’s lust needed additional inflaming, _ever_. But Derek really liked the image of himself prancing around with his butt hugged in brand new snowy white, bridal-white lace, shaking his _thang_ for Stiles in their honeymoon suite.

In the end they presented Jackson with six pairs of lace panties all his own, in red, black and white but also baby blue, hot pink and lavender. Some were even _silk_. Jackson had smirked and called both of them _assholes_ , but carefully stashed away the gift box in the swanky messenger bag he sometimes carried.

It was only a week later, on a Sunday Derek wanted to spend browsing an art fair near the coast. Jackson had invited himself along and Stiles, surely to be bored, knew he’d entertain himself with unsolicited interpretations of the art, certain to irritate their company.

At least Jackson had brought breakfast for three with him when he’d arrived at their door that morning.

As the trio sat in the yard round the last of their coffee and sugary rolls Scott dropped by with a dachshund puppy he and Isaac were fostering (meaning, soon to adopt as their child.)

Immediately Jackson leaped from his seat and squatted, gushing and giggling over the adorable little thing. The bottom band of his beautiful blue knit designer shirt rode above the waistline of his tailored pants. Jackson’s clothes always fit him flawlessly but leaning over the distracting, wriggling pup had undone his otherwise consummate tonsorial polish. Stiles’s casual glance down was rewarded with the sight of what Jackson wore under his pants.

Stiles stood, started clearing the table. Derek stood too, to assist. Once close Stiles made sure Derek was looking at him, quivering with elation.

Scott and Jackson kept chatting, Scott pretending to try persuading Jackson to take the puppy home, which Scott knew perfectly well Jackson would not ever do.

To Derek Stiles mouthed the words, “ _Baby blue_.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed, then rose high.

Carrying drained coffee cups and breakfast dishes back indoors Stiles and Derek both looked down at the still pup-enchanted Jackson, barely hiding their grins as they realized he’d color coordinated his shirt to the baby blue lace undies he was wearing.


End file.
